Traveling Music
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: Inspired by a technical glitch: One drabble or short for each song in a Knight Rider playlist.
1. I'll Be There

AN: I was going to post a KR playlist on my livejournal the other night, when something happened and my whole post got dumped. I was going to redo it, but then I got the idea--why not write a drabble or short-short for each song?

AN 2: KR and all related characters belong to Mr. Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them.

AN 3: This is a tag for 'Knight of the Phoenix.'

**1. I'll Be There**  
(Weekend Players, _Pursuit of Happiness_)

_When an ill wind blows  
And all hope goes  
And only heaven knows  
Which way to go  
To share the heavy load  
Down the long and winding road  
And when the sky falls in  
And you don't know where you've been or going to_

I'll be there for you  
I'll be, be there  
I'll be there for you  
I'll be, be there

As Devon hurried up to the Millston Memorial emergency room entrance, the doors parted before him like the waves of the Red Sea. A quick glance at the crowded room informed him that Bonnie was not in sight, so he made his way to the desk where a tall African-American nurse was helping an older woman fill out a form.

"Excuse me, miss," he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over a crying baby. "I need to find out--"

The nurse sized him up with a trained eye, and after a moment, she nodded to him over the older woman's head. "Please have a seat, and we'll be with you in just a moment."

He realized she must have decided that since he wasn't bleeding or showing any obvious signs of distress, he could wait. "Oh, no, I'm not in need of treatment," he began. "I came to--"

"Devon!"

At the sound of his name, he turned to see FLAG's newest member--the pretty young engineer, Bonnie Barstow--walking swiftly toward him. _Poor girl, it's a trial by fire,_ he thought as he watched her draw nearer.

"Bonnie, there you are." He took her hands into his own. "How is he?"

The young woman linked her arm through Devon's, and he noticed that she was trembling. "He's over here," Bonnie explained, moving toward a corner of the ER that was oddly quiet after the hubbub of the main room. "KITT got him here just in time."

Relief washed over Devon in a warm wave. "Thank God. I'd hate to think that this is over before it began."

Bonnie stopped in her tracks and let go of Devon's arm. "What?"

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He opened his eyes to see Bonnie frowning at him. "Please forgive me; I didn't mean to sound so callous."

Her expression softened. "I know. I was so scared when KITT called me. I got here as fast as I could."

Devon smiled and patted her hand. "Take my advice and get used to it now, my girl. This won't be the last time we meet like this."

They approached a set of double doors where a uniformed police officer awaited them. "Sir, I need to see some ID, please," said the policeman. Devon flashed his FLAG ID, and the policeman held open the swinging door for them.

On the hospital bed in front of them laid the lanky frame of a man, blanketed to the waist and sporting a tight white bandage over one shoulder. His eyes opened to aquamarine slits at the sound of their footsteps, and despite the livid purple welts on his handsome face, he smiled gingerly.

"Hi, guys," said Michael, his words showing the aftereffects of painkillers. "Fancy meeting you here."

Like a terrified parent after snatching a precocious child from harm's way, Devon felt a strong impulse to give Michael a good verbal thrashing, but refrained. Not for the first time in the past two weeks, Devon thought of his old friend, who had entrusted the Knight legacy to this young stranger. _Wilton, are you sure you knew what you were doing?_

Before Devon could say anything, Bonnie ruffled Michael's mop of curls. "Shut up and go back to sleep, you big yo-yo."

Michael smirked. "Yes ma'am," he drawled, his eyes already closing. Within two heartbeats, he was sound asleep.

Devon pulled away to retrieve a chair and offered it to Bonnie. She sank into the chair without a word, her eyes focused on the man in the bed, who was beginning to snore gently.

"I'll be right back," murmured Devon, and slipped out a side door.

Sure enough, a long, low black shadow was parked outside, as close to the door as possible. Devon patted the slick, smooth hood. "Hello, KITT."

The red scanner lights flicked worriedly. "Hello Mr. Miles. Is Michael all right?"

"Yes," Devon reassured him. "The doctors say that your quick action saved his life."

"That's good. I'd hate to have this end before it began." The scanner swished for a moment in silence. "He's...special."

Devon smiled. "I know."

--End--


	2. Have a Nice Day

AN: Knight Rider and all related characters are property of Mr. Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them.

AN 2: Michael is less than enthusiastic about his new job, and his new partner.

* * *

2. Have a Nice Day  
(Bon Jovi, _Have a Nice Day)__  
_  
_Take a look around you, nothing´s what it seems__  
__We're living in a broken home of hopes and dreams__  
__Let me be the first to shake a helping hand__  
__Anybody, brave enough to take a stand__  
__I've knocked on every door, on every dead-end street__  
__Looking for forgiveness and what's left to believe__Oh, if there is one thing I hang on to__  
__That gets me through the night__  
__I ain't gonna do what I don't want to__  
__I'm gonna live my life__  
__Shining like a diamond, rolling with the dice__  
__Standing on the ledge, I'll show the wind how to fly__  
__When the world gets in my face__  
__I say, Have A Nice Day__  
__Have A Nice Day_

"It's a lot to think about," Devon had said, his face obscured by the shadows in the garage. "Take your time."

For the first time since he'd woken up with a stranger's face, Michael decided that there was something to what Devon said, and so he was thinking about it...

...In a bar, ten miles from the Manor house.

He sat back and grinned at his surroundings. Sawdust on the floor, a honky tonk band playing behind chicken wire, waitresses with their denim shorts up to _there_ and their gingham print blouses down to _there--_now, this was his kind of place. He'd even managed to hitch a ride (though truth be told, he would have walked just as readily) in order to leave _that car_ in the garage.

Michael's smile melted like a snowflake on a griddle. His car, the one with the monthly payments and the oil changes every 3,000 miles--like his face, it too had been turned into something he didn't recognize. _Darth Vader's bathroom_. He gave a mirthless chuckle and finished the dregs of his tepid beer.

Almost at the instant he set his empty glass back on the scarred table, a pretty blonde waitress appeared at his elbow. "Can I get you a refill?" she asked.

Michael smiled at her; to his consternation, he was rewarded with a dusting of pink on the waitress' cheeks. "Sure thing, sweetheart," he drawled. To his horror, he heard himself add, "I'll take a refill and anything else you wanna give me."

She laughed lightly, the sound tinkling over the top of the Hank Williams tune being cranked out by the band. She took a pen from behind her ear, retrieved a napkin from the stack on her tray, and scribbled something on the paper. "Since you asked so nicely," she said. "I'll be right back."

She scurried away, and he glanced at the napkin. _Traci_, she'd written, with the 'i' dotted with a heart. _555-3984_. He turned the napkin over. _At least__ this phony mug's good for something_, he thought sourly.

And that was the problem, he decided. It was almost as if Michael Knight was a character he was playing. _The role of Michael Knight in tonight's performance was played by Michael Long_. There was one large difference: the makeup would never come off. Michael Knight was here to stay. Michael Knight would be driving his car, living in his house, going on his dates, living his life. Like conjoined twins that could never be separated, they were fused together until their dying breaths.

He glanced sharply at the beer Traci had left during his musings. What the heck was in it, to turn him so maudlin?

The band took a break, and the chatter of a Friday night crowd surged in volume. _Normal people_, he thought, glancing at the mix of blue-collar workers, farmhands, and business-suit types mingling at the end of a long work week. Once upon a time, he had been one of those who worked for the weekend. Once upon a time, he had been glad to shrug off his holster and take off his badge for two whole days (other than the weekends he was on call). Now his days ran together. Many times, he'd been at a loss as to what day it was, though he was sure _that car_ could supply him with that information readily enough.

He supposed he should be grateful. Not only was he alive, he had an opportunity to do what many in the bar would have given anything to be able to do: Make a difference--really and truly make a difference--in the lives of people. With a supercar at his beck and call, the immense resources of an eccentric industrialist's fortune at his disposal, and a face that could charm Cruella De Vil into Little Bo Peep, he could stand up for truth, justice, and the American way and look pretty good doing it.

Despite everything, there was still a voice that howled in the back of his mind, _I want my life back, damnit!_An all-too audible voice cut into his thoughts; female, high and stressed, tinged with anger and embarrassment. _Traci. __"--_Max, I told you--"

The deep snarl of a wounded male cut her off midsentence. "--And I told YOU! I saw the way that guy was looking at you!"

Michael's ears pricked, but he didn't turn around. Yet.

"Go home, Max," said the girl in a quieter tone, clearly hoping not to make a scene. "You're drunk. I don't have time to deal with you right now."

A scuffle and a yelp of pain set Michael's blood to throbbing in his ears. He felt his breathing quicken as adrenaline began to sing in his veins. _Here we go...__  
_  
Then he was up and out of his seat, falsely casual as he turned around to face his opponent: A muscular man in his mid-twenties, clad in a white t-shirt, dirty jeans, and a battered CAT baseball cap. The man (the infamous Max, he supposed) had his thick fingers clamped around Traci's bicep, and was pulling her toward the door, but bless her heart, she was having none of it. Her blue eyes blazed with indignation as she tried to keep the drinks on her tray from spilling.

"_Let me go_," she gritted. "Maxwell Anthony Bedford, let me go or so help me I'll--"

Max tugged harder, forcing Traci to take a few reluctant steps forward. "Or you'll _what_?"

"Excuse me, Traci?" Michael spoke to the girl but kept his eyes on Max. "Is this fellow bothering you?"

Right on cue, Max lunged toward Michael, dragging a protesting Traci with him. "Who are _you_?" demanded the ruffian, his hot, beery breath rising in an unpleasant cloud directly up Michael's nose.

"Someone who thinks you should do as the lady says," Michael replied calmly.

Max flung Traci away, and the girl toppled backwards, sending her tray to the ground with a terrific crash. "Oh yeah?" Max popped his knuckles. "_I'm_ someone who thinks you should mind your own business!"

The haymaker never made it to Michael's jaw; instead, Michael grabbed the nearest table and swung it in a short arc, maneuvering the edge of the tabletop to land squarely against Max's solar plexus. Stunned and out of breath, Max stumbled into a knot of brawny ironworkers, and landed with a gooey plop into their extra-large order of chicken wings. The rickety table collapsed under Max's weight, and the ironworkers scattered like shrapnel into the tables of patrons around them.

An instant later, the bar erupted in a cacophony of grunts, shouts, and crashes as the bar patrons vented the frustrations of a long work week on each other.

Michael grabbed Traci, pulled her to her feet, and made a hasty exit past the startled bouncer, who had been out for a smoke and missed the whole thing.

"Where are we going?" gasped Traci, struggling to keep up with Michael's ground-eating stride.

"Michael!"

A familiar voice off to the right brought his head around to see--_that damned car_.

Wait, it _followed_ him here?

Thankfully, he didn't have time to dwell on the car's creepy behavior; the fight was beginning to spill out the door of the bar as the bouncer bodily threw Max and several others into the dusty lot. "Traci!" roared Max, as the ironworkers dragged him under for another round.

Suddenly, he was Michael Long of the LVPD, trying to get a victim to safety. "Come on!"

The Trans Am appeared in front of them with a screech of tires, and the passenger side door swung open as if by magic.

Traci stuttered to a stop. "What's going on?"

"Get in," said Michael, folding her into the car with one hand on her arm and one hand pushing gently, but firmly, on the top of her head. The door swung shut _(no time to think about it now)_, and he raced around the spoiler-bedecked trunk lid to throw himself into the drivers' seat. Without his having to touch the wheel or put his foot on the gas, the car spun its tires and fishtailed out of the parking lot.

Their harsh breathing sounded loud in the soundproofed cabin of the car. Michael glanced at Traci, who was pressed into the seat as far from the complex dash as she could be. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Not taking her eyes from the dash, Traci nodded. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Good." He blew out a sigh. "Is Max your boyfriend?"

She still didn't look away from the buttons and digital readouts. "Ex," she said.

"Glad to hear it." Michael put a hand on her shoulder. "Hey, relax. You're safe now."

"Michael, I've notified the authorities to the disturbance at the public house," said the clipped Bostonian voice, the red light on the dash flashing in time with the syllables.

Traci squeaked and curled into a ball. "Who said that?"

Michael sighed. "Traci, this is KITT. KITT, this is Traci."

"Pleased to meet you," said KITT. "I'm glad to see you weren't injured. Your former paramour looked to be quite the rough customer."

The girl began to unclench, wonder starting to replace the fear on her face. "Your car…talks?"

"I do a lot more than talk, my dear," KITT huffed.

Despite himself, Michael felt his lips twitching into a smile. "KITT?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"No one likes a smartass automobile."

"Meaning…?"

"Shut up."

* * *

Traci gave Michael a winning smile. "Thanks for being my knight in shining armor."

"You're welcome," Michael said, congratulating himself for not wincing at her unconscious reference to his alter-ego.

"And thank you too, KITT," she said, patting the dashboard. "You're both heroes in my book."

"You're quite welcome, Traci," KITT replied.

"So Michael, you want to come up for a cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake?" Traci asked. "It's my mama's recipe; I just made it this morning."

He felt himself slip back into Knight's character. "Now how did you know that chocolate is my absolute favorite?"

She smiled teasingly. "Just a lucky guess."

"Michael, we really need to get back to the Manor," KITT broke in. "Bonnie hasn't finished making all of the adjustments on my systems yet. I'm not entirely field ready, and if we should encounter any more barroom brawls, I couldn't vouch for my performance."

Michael opened his mouth, and then shut it. "Spoilsport," he muttered, with an irritated glance at the voice box.

Traci laughed. "Too bad; I was hoping to get to know you both a little better." She opened the door and climbed out gracefully, then shut the door and leaned on the frame, displaying all her womanly charms. "Maybe the next time you're in town, you can look me up."

"You're sure you'll be all right?" Michael asked, trying not to let her lovely curves derail his attempt at chivalry. "Max might come back, you know."

Traci smirked. "Oh, don't worry about him. Ol' Max will be singing a different tune come tomorrow morning, having spent the night in Sheriff Lupo's drunk tank."

"Maxwell Anthony Bedford does have quite a record of drunken disorderly," said KITT, calling up the man's mug shot and rap sheet on the monitor. "Let's hope the experience inspires him to mend his ways."

Michael rolled his eyes. "You'll have to excuse my partner," he explained. "He's got this glitch that makes him think he's Joe Friday."

"Very funny, Michael." The sarcasm in the synthesized voice made Michael queasy.

Her eyes twinkling, Traci patted the door frame and backed away with a smile. "See you around."

* * *

They drove in silence for a while; at least, Michael drove, having refused to give the AI control. He did, however, let KITT put the windows down, since it was a warm evening. Besides, he couldn't find the right lever amongst all the buttons and lights, and didn't relish the idea of ending up catapulted onto the road while trying to find it.

"So we're partners now?" asked KITT.

On top of all its other abilities, the car could be apropos of nothing as well.

"What?"

"Back there, you called me your partner."

Michael pulled a face. "I did?"

"I could play it back for you, if you like."

Good grief, it never quit. "No, thanks, I remember now." Michael sighed. "I made a mistake; a simple slip of the tongue."

"A Freudian slip, if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you. And you're not my partner, you're my car."

A few moments of blessed silence. Then: "Your last partner was killed in the line of duty. Do you still blame yourself for that tragic event?"

That did it. Michael slammed on the brakes, bringing them to an ear-splitting screech of a stop. "Look, you," he snarled, pointing at the voice box. "It's enough that you follow me around, come blazing in to save the day like some four-wheeled Superman, and then interfere with my love life. Don't go sticking your electronic nose into my business, okay, pal?"

"I can hardly refrain from doing so," said KITT, maddeningly superior. "The information was loaded into my data banks so I might serve you more efficiently. I must understand your character in order to anticipate your needs."

Michael threw up his hands in defeat. "It not only talks, it's a rolling shrink."

"And if I hadn't 'blazed in,'" KITT continued, as if Michael had never spoken, "that bully would have come after you and Traci. Both of you might have been badly hurt, and such an event would be contrary to my prime directives: Preserve human life, and protect my driver."

Michael's jaw knotted as he stared unseeing out the windshield at the darkening horizon. "I was taking care of myself while you were still just a blueprint on a drawing board and a pile of sheet metal."

"That is a true statement," said KITT. "You became a police officer in 1975. I was not created until 1982."

"See, that's the problem," Michael said hotly. "You know _facts_. You don't know what it's like to hold someone in your arms and watch them die." He sighed. "You won't ever understand what it's like…to feel as if you could have prevented it, if you'd just been there a few seconds earlier."

KITT was silent a moment. "I know that it would be a tragedy if I could not protect you."

Michael frowned at the sudden edge of melancholy in the AI's voice. "What?"

"Granted, I am nearly indestructible, but that only helps you when you are inside the cabin." KITT paused, and Michael could hear the CPU clicking over the _tick-tick_ of the manifold cooling down. "However, you will be inside the cabin only 49 of the time that we will be working together, mostly during travel. The other 51, you will need to rely on your prior skill in, as you say, 'taking care of yourself.'"

More clicking. "I am a sophisticated machine, but I do have my limitations. There is the slight chance that I myself might arrive too late to come to your aid, from mechanical failure or other mitigating circumstances." Another pause. "There would be no question: I would know with mathematical certainty that I could have prevented your injury or death if I had been there a few seconds earlier."

Michael blinked. "KITT…does thinking—er, processing such an idea…does it make you…_sad?_"

"I don't have emotions like you do," KITT reminded him. "However, your absence would be undeniable."

Michael found that his thumbs were stroking the gull-wing steering wheel in an unconscious gesture of comfort. "So what you're saying is that you'd miss me."

"Yes," said KITT. "I would."

It was all too much, Michael thought. What had Wilton Knight done? The AI that happened to live under the hood acted for all the world like it had a _soul_, for crying out loud.

And worst of all, Michael felt himself beginning to care about the infernal machine.

"Michael?"

He couldn't bring himself to be harsh, not anymore. "Yes, KITT?"

"Can we go home now?"

Michael smiled and pressed the ignition switch. "Yeah. Let's go home, pal. You've got a date with Bonnie tonight, and a gentleman never keeps a lady waiting."

--END--


	3. Don't Give Up

AN: Knight Rider and all related characters belong to Glen Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

_Don't give up when you're all alone  
You may fall but you can't let go  
Don't give up  
When you feel you can't take another night  
Don't give up, make it all or nothing  
Take it all if you just imagine  
All the passion and love you have  
It cannot be denied_

And oh, just hold on to the dream inside  
There are many more mountains in front of you  
You need to climb  
Oh, and all through of the darkest times  
And through all of the danger  
All the illusion  
All the confusion you find  
Don't give up

--Abraxas Pool

At the soft knock on his door, Devon glanced up from the letter he was writing. He flicked his gaze toward the digital clock perched on the desk: _11:43pm. Who on earth-?_

"Come in."

To Devon's shock, Michael walked into the room, carefully shutting the door behind him. The lanky driver's long stride took him across the Turkish carpet to Devon's desk in just a few steps, and there he waited--like an errant schoolboy sent to the headmaster's office.

_Oh, dear_, thought Devon. _What's happened now? _With Michael there was no telling; massive amounts of property damage, a disgruntled boyfriend, a mad bomber, a jewel thief--it was all in a day's work for one Michael Knight, quasi-private investigator and FLAG employee.

"Devon, I...I need to talk to you about something." The normally cheerful voice was subdued; the laughing eyes were clouded with pain. Devon's confusion turned into genuine alarm, and he stood and moved around the desk to look into Michael's face.

"Michael, what's the matter?"

Michael was silent a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. Finally, he raised his head and fixed Devon with a sorrowful gaze. "Devon, I don't think I can do this anymore."

"What are you saying?" Devon frowned and laid a hand on Michael's arm as if to steady the younger man. "You want to leave the Foundation?"

Michael took a deep breath. "Yeah. I'm sorry, but...Devon, I just can't do it. Wilton was wrong; one man can't make a difference. Not by himself."

"But you have KITT--"

The tall ex-cop held up a hand to stop Devon's words in mid-sentence. "I know. And he's great. There's nothing wrong with him. It's me who's got the problem."

Devon sighed. "It's about Cassidy Johansen, isn't it? That's what this is about."

At the sound of the girl's name, Michael shut his eyes and turned away. "God, Devon--did you have to say it? She's all I've been thinking about for the past two weeks. I can't get her face out of my head; every time I close my eyes, there she is." His handsome features began to distort in anguish. "All I hear is her screaming my name, begging for me to--" His voice cracked. "...to save her." He let out a long, shaky breath. "I couldn't do it. I didn't get there in time, and now she's gone. Nineteen years old, and she's gone."

Devon's heart ached for the young man before him. A memory swept through the Englisman's mind: Garthe as a young boy, running to Wilton in tears over this or that disappointment. Wilton would kneel before the child, draw him into a comforting embrace, and let the boy sob out his frustration. _Don't cry, son_, he would say. _Devon and I will make it right_.

Devon sighed. Michael wasn't that boy, even if he wore that boy's face, and there was nothing Wilton could do now to make things right.

...Or _was_ there something?

"Michael," said Devon, a sudden flare of hope giving intensity to his words, "there's something I need to show you. Wilton knew this day would come, and he prepared accordingly."

The young driver raised his head, heedless of the tears that tumbled down his cheeks. "What do you mean, he knew?"

Devon allowed himself a small smile. "Wilton was always thinking. He never claimed to be psychic, but he was always leaps and bounds ahead of everyone. He truly was a visionary." Devon gestured to the small sitting area. "Here, I'll show you."

Michael wiped his tears and did as he was bade, drying his hands on his blue jeans as he sat. Devon went to the wall safe behind the tapestry, opened the safe and withdrew a fat envelope. He gave the envelope to Michael, who gaped at seeing his own name written on the outside.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Devon prompted gently. "As you can see, it's addressed to you."

Michael turned his attention back to the envelope, and after a minute, carefully tore it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a videotape. The black case was unlabeled, but a note was taped to the outside. Michael peeled off the note and handed the videotape to Devon.

As Michael scanned the few words Wilton had penned the day before his death a year earlier, Devon turned on the small television and loaded the tape into the machine. The screen was snowy for a moment, and then the picture cleared to reveal Wilton Knight, sitting in the chair beside the fireplace in the very room where they now sat.

"Hello, Michael--and hello, Devon, since you're probably watching this too." He smiled, and tears sprang to Devon's eyes at the sight of his friend.

"Hello, Wilton," Devon whispered.

"Michael, I gave specific instructions as to the timing of when you would view this tape," Wilton continued. "If you ever attempted to resign from your position, I wanted Devon to play this tape for you before you made your decision. If, after hearing what I have to say, you decide to leave the Foundation, I understand. This is not an easy task I assigned to you, and many capable men would have given up long before you ever would.

"However, you must understand that I chose you for this job--you specifically. I thought of offering the job to you as Michael Long, but the events of that night presented me with some options I hadn't thought of previously." Wilton stopped to clear his throat, and sipped from a glass of water on the table before him. "It turned out that I was able to kill at least three birds with one stone: Give KITT his body, by virtue of commandeering your Trans Am; get a partner for the AI that my company developed; and save the life of a man who deserved a second chance.

"So. Since this tape was only to be played in this particular circumstance, I can guess that something has happened that has tried you, beaten you, and hurt you badly enough that you want to just turn your back and walk away." Wilton leaned forward, his gaze sharpening. "Don't give up, Michael. You've got that fire inside of you that so many lack. So many people go through their lives never realizing their true potential. So many give up before they can even begin to make a difference. I'm telling you that you've got to keep fighting. Keep going, even when it looks like you're not making headway, because you are. People see what you do, even when you're not successful, and that gives people hope." He turned away, trying to quell a coughing fit, and took up the water glass with shaking hands. He swallowed painfully a few times, then put the glass back on the table.

"I don't have much time," he said softly. "I don't know how much of this I will be able to tell you in person, so that's why I made this tape for you. Don't let the world get you down, Michael. It's a dark place, and I brought you here to be a ray of light. Keep that light shining, Michael. Don't give up."

The picture winked out into snow once more. Slowly, Devon reached over and shut the machine off.

Michael sat silent for a moment, and then looked up at Devon. "The old guy knew how to give a pep talk, didn't he?"

Devon smiled. "He was a realist, but an optimist as well. He believed in hard work, but he had great faith in people's potential." He lowered his gaze to the carpet. "There were times when he seemed to run roughshod over people, but that was because he didn't want them to underestimate themselves. He could push too hard, but it was always with good intentions."

"Yeah." Michael stood and drew a long, white envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket. "I guess you can tear this up."

Devon took the white envelope, but didn't open it. "Your letter of resignation?"

Michael nodded. "I don't think I'll be needing it."

With a grin, Devon clapped Michael on the shoulder. "Welcome back."

A familiar voice broke over the intercom speakers. "Hear, hear."

Michael laughed. "KITT, were you listening in this whole time?"

"Of course. I couldn't let you get away _that_ easily. If Wilton Knight's entreaty didn't work, then I was going to add my two cents."

"Well, it'd be worth a lot more than that, buddy," Michael replied. "I'll see you in a bit."

"Promise?"

"That's a promise." The line clicked softly, and Michael glanced at Devon. "Thanks for showing me that. I'm okay now." He sighed and walked toward the door. "Cassidy's gone, and I can't help her...but maybe I can help someone like her. And this time, I'll be there."

Devon watched him go, then reached down and plucked the tape from the machine. "Well done, my friend," he murmured, slipping the tape back into the envelope. "Well done."

--END--


End file.
